I sit up straight and wipe my eyes. I’m such a freaking mess and I really better get it together. As I stand to start unpacking, a black landline phone rings next to the bed. It startles me, but I answer on the third chime.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Mirella.” I recognize Fynn’s voice, even over the tinny handset. “Meet me in the downstairs gym in an hour. I’ll send a member of the staff to escort you.”
“Wait, for what?”
“Our first session. Work starts today.” And the line goes dead.
I stare at the phone before gently placing the receiver back down.
Work starts today. That’s right, this is work. I’m here to do a job and nothing more, and I can stop crying, stop feeling sorry for myself, stop doing anything but focusing on the task at hand.
I’m here to help Fynn regain his mobility and nothing more.
I can focus on that. I can survive. And I will.
For myself and for my mother.
I’m escorted by a nice, quiet girl with straight bangs down a stairway, through a series of halls, and to a moderately large home gym. It’s filled with weight machines, mirrors, exercise bikes, a couple treadmills, free weights, and an open padded mat area. I find Fynn standing near the bench press machine, leaning on his cane and looking thoughtfully at the equipment.
I take the moment to study him: tall, muscular, well built. He’s gorgeous as hell, even gripping the cane white-knuckled like he wants to crack it in half. He’s wearing gym shorts and a tight gym shirt, and tattoos snake down his arms: prayer hands, a dove, a knife, a heart. His face is clouded and hard to read, but he’s in pain, that much is obvious. If I didn’t already know he was injured, I wouldn’t guess it by looking at him—with the exception of the cane.
Fynn is a sight to behold. Beautiful, intense. I clear my throat and step forward into the room and he looks at me, his frown turning to something else.
Excitement? Desire? I can’t tell. He glances down my body. I’m wearing a simple collared shirt and a pair of tight black yoga pants—both professional and appropriate for a workout. His eyes linger on my legs though, and I wonder if I should’ve worn looser pants. No reason to walk into the lion’s den wearing a meat suit. That’s just begging to get eaten.
“How’s your room so far?” he asks, meeting my eyes again.
“It’s nice. Really nice. I’m not used to all this—” I gesture around, indicating the wealth, the comfort, the prestige.
His lips curl. “I know. I saw your apartment.”
I turn red and I struggle to keep my anger under control. “You don’t need to be a dick about it.”
“I’m only pointing out that yes, you’re right, you’re not used to a place like Villa Bruno. But you’re a guest here, and as long as you’re living under this roof, you should feel welcome.” He turns toward me, shuffling a bit. I watch his gait, despite the rage shimmering under my skin, and try to gauge how he moves, my PT brain taking over. I take note of the way he favors one leg, the way his knees don’t quite raise enough, the way his ankles turn. All my training kicks in as I study him, and slowly my anger dissipates, replaced by professional concern.
“Do me a favor. Walk in my direction.”
His eyebrows raise. “Torturing me already?”
“Please. I need to get a sense of how you move.”
“I had a feeling you’d like watching me,” he says, smiling a bit as he comes forward. I measure each step, watching the details of his mechanics. I can see some obvious problems: weakness, tightness. Things that can be helped by routine training, stretching, and massage.
The idea of touching this man strikes me suddenly and I struggle not to blush. Touch is a part of the job—I can’t help him without touching him, at least to some extent. I need to be able to show him how to do certain stretches, poses, exercises, how to walk, how to steady himself. And all during that, I need to touch this gorgeous asshole, and the idea is frankly terrifying.
He’s still coming toward me, shuffling along with the help of the cane. He should be using a walker, but I’m guessing he’s much too proud for that. Hell, he should be in a wheelchair though I’m sure that’ll never happen.
He’s beautiful. It’s hard to fathom as he comes ever closer. His eyes are sharp and his muscles are hard and lean, and though his legs have lost much of their muscle definition, they’re still surprisingly toned and shapely. He smirks at me like he’s enjoying this, and I try to keep my mind as dispassionate and professional as I can, but it’s impossible.